Whispers of Silence
by hierogylphsoup
Summary: A dream, a nightmare, and a conversation between two tired children.


"Jack." A frantic whisper in a darkened room. "Jack! Wake up," The voice dared to raise, and was met with only silence. The breath it traveled on was rapid and shallow with fear and confusion.

The girl, half propped on her elbows, rose completely from her bed, and padded with not-too-frantic feet (for it would not do to let any monsters beneath the bed see her fear) the short distance to the bed where her brother slumbered, peaceful and still. Glancing furtively around her once to ensure no beasts of the night were taking her turned back as an advantageous opportunity, she leaned over the bedside, balancing on the balls of her feet. Breathing quietly, she moved to whisper in his ear, lips not an inch away. And very suddenly, a wicked idea he so would've liked had he been awake bloomed in her mind, and a grin stole across her face. She took in a great lungful of air, slowly, quietly, for if he woke then she wouldn't get her fun.

"Jack!" she cried at the still form, suppressing giggles not meant for the night when he spluttered to wakefulness, mumbling something quite nonsensical (" _dogs in the outhouse, uncle,"_ ) and flailing his arms against an invisible threat. It took him a moment to come to his senses, and she glanced around as he rubbed his eyes blearily. She'd been distracted, and any number of terrors could've approached in that lapse.

"Anne?" he murmured. "Why are you up? And shouting?" His voice was slurred with sleep, and he laid back on his pillow, forearms folded over his eyes.

"There's a bear outside."

He moved his arms and looked at her tiredly. "What?"

She huffed and risked a glance to the window. "There's a _beeaar_ ," she repeated, drawing out the word like it was great magic to behold.

He ran his thumb below an eye, where there were bags and dark circles, which were highlighted in the shadows. "No, there's not, go back to bed," he responded, drawing out his words in the same way she had.

"Jack! You don't know there's not a bear," she said indignantly, giving his shoulder a shove and shuffling her bare feet on the cold wooden floors.

"I do, though," he said, words muffled by the covers he'd drawn up almost to his nose.

She crossed her arms and cocked an eyebrow. "How?" she challenged.

"It's winter, they're all sleeping." His words were followed by a muffled statement that vaguely implied he was jealous of them, but she cut off his mutterings.

"Well then it must've been a wolf," she countered reasonably, moving backwards a bit when she realized her toes had shifted beneath the bed and out of the barest hints of moonlight.

"They're sleeping, too. We should all be sleeping," he said pointedly.

"Nuh uh."

"Yes huh."

She huffed again, impatient. "Wolves sleep during the day. They're nautical."

Something sounding suspiciously like a laugh came from beneath the covers. "You mean nocturnal."

"That's what I said. Will you go check, please?"

He moved the covers and looked at her. "Before I get up, why do you think there's a bear?" he asked.

"It's the mama. You and me were playing with the cubs and she's angry that her babies smell like people so she's coming for us."

"When did we play with bear cubs? I mean, I would. That'd be fun, but when did this happen?"

She thought for a moment, an expression of perplexity dawning on her face. "I don't remember."

There was silence for a moment, then, "Did you have any of the almond bread before bed?"

"No!" she said quickly, and suddenly she was very worried that their mother was awake and listening. "Just a taste. A little bite." Always the goody-two-shoes, she was embarrassed to admit anything. But Jack just smiled sleepily, and she knew implicitly he wouldn't tell on her.

"That'll still give you weird dreams. We never played with bear cubs, so their mom's not outside. All right?" He smiled at her, and she couldn't help returning it.

"All right," she whispered back.

The cold sent a shiver up her spine and she shuddered audibly. "You all right?" he asked her quietly.

She made a noncommittal noise and rocked on her heels. She threw another furtive glance around the room, and he knew suddenly that she'd had more than one weird dream. Scooting over, he pushed back the covers.

"Come on, scaredy-cat," he said teasingly. She glared at him.

"I'm not a scaredy-cat," she mumbled. Despite the fact that she was staring daggers at him, she climbed into the bed under blissfully warm quilts.

She faced the room and wiggled until their backs were to each other.

"Yes, you are."

A half-hearted kick backwards. " _You_ are."

"You are. And your feet are cold," he said accusingly.

"They are not!"

He made a noise that was somewhere between a sigh and a laugh. "Sometimes I feel like you could stand toe-to-toe with a lawyer for how much you argue things," he said.

"Mph. Thanks," she mumbled, a little flattered, a little inspired.

He sighed, and shifted, and she heard his spine pop a few times. He was warm at her back and though she stared vigilantly into the dark of the room, she felt sleepy and safe.

"Goodnight."

"Night."

* * *

 _ **Author's Note: All characters appearing in this story are the intellectual property of William Joyce, David Lindsay-Abaire, et al. I own nothing.**_

 _ **What a couple of nerds. I love them. This was really fun to write, and I keep unwittingly coming up with headcanons for Jack's sister (if you're wondering why I've named her Anne instead of the Pippa which seems to be popular, it's mostly because a**_ **ton** ** _of women in the early colonial period were named Anne. For real. How many Pippas can you think of off the top of your head? Honestly, if you look up colonial-era names, Pippa isn't even listed. I haven't anything against it, mind you. I just try to maintain historical accuracy). Anyway, this was fun, and her personality is really shaping up. Too often in this archive, I see her boiled down to 'the cute little girl who says_** **I'm scared** ** _', which is a pity, really. I like to think she never gets the outspokenness beaten out of her. On an unrelated note, I see the whole 'siblings-sharing-a-bed' thing butchered pretty often (not just here. Everywhere). I've shared a bed with my sister on multiple occasions and though I love her to death, we don't cuddle. In truth, we fight over the blanket._**

 ** _All right; this author's note has gone on far too long already. I'm a terrible chatterbox who loves human Jack, if you can't already tell. Reviews are appreciated! Love, hieroglyphsoup._**


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